standing.
Chaol only gripped Dorian tighter. “You
have one hell of a story to tell yourself.”
Dorian pulled back, his face solemn.
A story, Chaol realized, that might not be
as happy as his own.
Yet before whatever doom Dorian carried
could fall upon them, Chaol gestured to where
Yrene had dismounted and now wiped away
her tears.
“The woman responsible for this,” Chaol
said, motioning to his standing, his walking,
to the army stretching down the road. “Yrene
Towers. A healer at the Torre Cesme. And my
wife.”
Yrene bowed, and Chaol could have sworn
a flicker of sorrow darkened Dorian’s eyes.
But then his king was taking Yrene’s hands,
lifting her from her bow. And though that
sorrow still edged his smile, Dorian said to
lily
(lily)
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